


Let Me Hear Your Name, Plain on Your Tongue

by Upupanyway



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: 5k slowburn, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, F/M, Languages, World Travel, but their meet cute is a threesome, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22127047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upupanyway/pseuds/Upupanyway
Summary: Foggy is a young spy, and he keeps meeting the same woman around the world and she makes his job difficult.
Relationships: Elektra Natchios/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	Let Me Hear Your Name, Plain on Your Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> get your google translate ready

The first time they meet, they lock eyes from across the room and instantly dismiss each other. She is a pretty socialite in a cocktail dress and he is a broad-shouldered aristocrat who is neither particularly handsome nor particularly charming.

He wears a bowtie, which his friend straightens for him constantly.

"D'accord. Je le vois," he says, batting his friend's hands away.

"Bonne chance, mon chéri," his friend says, kissing his cheek. "Let me know if you need any help," he whispers into his ear. Then, he says, "Je t'adore! Je crois en toi!" and he nearly skips to his post, his white cane in front of him and a smirk to his irritatingly handsome face.

Foggy gags with emphasis and makes his way over to his target, a young man in his late 20s named Édouard Klein.

He calls to the man, who turns, puzzled. "Pardonne-moi, nous sommes-nous déjà rencontrés?"

"Dans mes rèves, oui," he jokes lightly, adjusting his glasses to start the recording. "Non, mais ma mère adore vos travaux."

They hit it off quickly, and eventually a woman joins them. She's a flirty but generic type, he thinks initially. She's attentive, and her white teeth are brilliant against her blood red lipstick. Her hair is a beautiful work of intricate curls that looks like every other elaborate bun around him. She drinks red wine, sipping delicately from her wide and bulbous glass.

He thinks she's at her loveliest when Édouard is not paying attention. Her smile drops, though there are times when her amusement still shines in her eyes. He gets the impression that she isn't amused at his words, but something above them, as if she is watching the three of them outside of her body and she finds them all trivial and risibly frivolous. She looks viscous when she laughs among them. Three rounds of hors d'oeuvres later, he decides that he likes her.

She's even more dangerous when they all fall into bed together. She keeps her jewelry on, and she quietly watches the pair of men in front of her. In those moments, he gets the distinct impression that she is made to be worshipped. 

"Baise sa bouche," she commands, pulling his hair and biting along his spine.

"Oui, madame," he says, watching Édouard fold to his knees.

-

The next morning, he dresses before either of his companions get up. Édouard sleeps on his side curled up to her. She pets his hair lazily and watches Foggy dress.

"Tu pars déjà?" she asks him without any regret or curiosity.

"Oui, je dois voir mon ami," he tells her with a small smile. He tucks in his shirt and his pants ruffle loudly in the early morning quiet.

"Ton copain aveugle?" she asks, referring to his partner. It sends a shiver down his spine. He hadn't known he was being watched.

"Oui," he answers, a knowing smile on his lips. "Mon partenaire."

"Un compagnon?"

He winks at her. "Au revoir, mademoiselle Ophèlie. J'espère vous revoir bientôt," he says, and he goes to slip out the door.

Ophèlie reaches to the bedside table and holds something to him. "Vos lunettes, Jakob," she offers, holding his glasses out to him.

"Ah, merci," he says, taking them and kissing Ophèlie's hand on his way out.

-

He had nearly forgotten about Ophèlie when he sees her four months later in Puebla.

They notice each other in a back alley. Foggy is hiding a very important binder in his bag, and by the looks of it, she is out for a light mid-afternoon jog towards the minister's house he was just heading back from.

"¿No eras rubio?" the woman, who Foggy is increasingly realizing might never have been named Ophèlie, asks, stopping her run. He runs a hand through his hair, which had been meticulously dyed a warm brown.

"¿No eras francesa?" he accuses back at her.

"Estoy… de vacaciones," she says slowly.

"Y estoy en un viaje… de autoconocimiento," Foggy explains. He waits for her next move.

"Bien. Felicidades," she says stiffly. "Te ves bien."

"Gracias," he responds awkwardly, inching back towards the hotel at which he is staying with his partner. Finally, he huffs. "Debería ir a ver a mi compañero."

"¿Tu socio o tu pareja?"

Foggy gets a flash of reminiscence, remembering that she had wanted to know back then, four months ago, and how he had answered her then.

"Adiòs, Ophèlie," he dismisses like before, walking away in full strides, now.

"Rosa," she corrects him. "Me llamo Rosa, aquí." He turns back to her and meets her daring gaze. In it, she confirms everything that he had suspected, and a moment of solidarity passes between them and he knows that she knows, too.

"Y me llamo Raùl. Encantado," he nods to her, and he continues to walk.

He listens, too, as Rosa peels her feet off the stone and continues her run.

-

The third time they meet, she finds his room in Szeged; it is six weeks later. He had been assembling a breakfast sandwich when the woman bursts in through his back window.

"Szia, ismét," she greets pleasantly. "Où bonjour? ¿Hola? ¿Qué prefieres?"

"English, actually," he answers plainly. "Would you like some sandwich?"

She scowls at him. Crossing the distance to put a knife to his throat.

"You keep getting in my way, and I don't appreciate it."

"I'm just doing my job, same as you," Foggy points out, not at all phased by the blade grazing his jugular.

"You're being annoying."

"We just happen to be put on the same sort of assignment. It should be fine. Best and quickest wins, right?"

"You're not made for best and quickest," she sneers. She makes a half-hearted attempt with her knife and nicks the side of his face, on his cheek. Without close inspection, he may have cut it shaving. Still, he doesn't flinch.

"What mission are you here for? We might not even be on the same case."

"Like I'd tell you," she huffs, replacing the knife along his jaw.

"No, it's easy. Mine is Senator Beres," he demonstrates. "Who's yours?"

She breathes on him carefully, then she relaxes a fraction. "The billionaire, Kurt," she cedes begrudgingly. Finally, she sheathes her weapons and crosses her arms, pacing along the tidy apartment.

"This doesn't mean we're friends all of a sudden."

Foggy sighs and pouts her some coffee from his carafe. "Here. We can just truce. Agree not to get in each other's ways when we can, and work something out when it's unavoidable."

She takes his coffee and sips it, melting into the room as she does so.

"Tasty, right? The secret is grinding up hazelnuts with the beans," he tells her, slicing his sandwich in half he puts it on two plates.

"I hope you're not as easy with government secrets," she snorts as she receives her meal. "American, aren't you?"

"Yeah. How did you know?"

"Who else would put jam and bacon together like this?" she says in disgust.

"Taste it. It's good, I swear."

Disbelieving, she takes a bite and chews it thoroughly. She makes up her mind.

"I hate this," she says, taking another bite.

He smiles at her, and clinks his mug to hers where it rests on the counter.

"Cheers."

-

They meet in Tung Chung six months later, where a monk of interest is to meet both of them separately. Foggy is learning meditation and martial arts techniques to incorporate into the new Human Resources initiative, and she is gathering historical research on a certain war at which the location had been of particular importance.

"Strange how we keep meeting, isn't it?" She asks him. The garden around them is expansive and naturalistic. He had assumed it was just some overgrowth, but then he noticed one of the monks pulling weeds.

He hums, admiring the view. The woman is beautiful, of course, lithe but not delicate. She forms a thrilling contrast with the well-kept wildflowers, and she watches him cautiously, eyes dark and dangerous like the flaxlily berries amongst them. Her shape is ill-defined in the borrowed monastery robes, and she looks more relaxed than he had ever seen her. She is framed in green and lit by the sun, and these things feel new.

"I don't suppose it's that strange," he says carefully, continuing his walk on the stone path. "We both travel a lot, and it's not like we see each other every time we're on location."

"That's fair. I don't generally meet other agents on the field. Or if I do, I suppose I don't notice."

Foggy laughs and sits down on a wooden platform. "I never said I was good at my job," he shrugs. "And to be fair, we spent a bit more time looking at each other's faces than other agents might."

"My face? Is that what you were looking at?" She jokes. It catches him by surprise because he didn't think she was capable of it.

"Yes," he says, deadpan. "Just your face." He looks away to admire the flowers.

She takes a sai from her hip and uses it to make him face her. "Well, feel free to look at my face some more, if you're so inclined," she says, teasing.

He takes her hand and guides her to sit beside him instead. "There are other things to look at, though," he tells her. "It's such a gorgeous day, isn't it?" He breathes in the fresh and humid air, toppling himself over and lying down on the platform. "Just look at that sky," he says. "It's so blue, it's practically green," he says a little nonsensically. He turns his head to the side, reaching out to feel the flowers beside him. He runs the petal of an azalea between his fingers, moist and velvet, and it comes off in his hand.

When he turns back to her, it's to the knowledge that she had been watching him, cross legged beside him. They're wearing the same thing and it occurs to him that they match. The folds of the muted orange fabric flow over and into each other and he can almost imagine them connected.

"Here," he says, offering her the petal.

"You're destroying property and framing me?" She asks, humour brightening her eyes, though she doesn't smile.

"Exactly."

She reaches out and takes it anyway, stashing it in her robe, and just like that, it is as if it had never existed.

They breathe in silence for long moments, and they stay suspended in the still moment. A breeze circles them lazily insects buzz around them.

"Sorry," one of the monks says, breaking them from their peace. "Lo is in the library, and he's found the references you've asked for."

"Thank you," she says, shuffling off of the platform. She waits for Foggy, and they walk together for the rest of their stay.

-

A whole year later, they are in Toronto. More specifically, they are on the Greyhound from New York to Toronto.

"Excuse me," a familiar voice calls out. Foggy opens his eyes to see her face. "I'm sorry, but the man sitting beside you is an old friend of mine, and I was wondering if I could maybe take your seat?" she says to the man sitting next to him. The bus is empty for the most part, but he grumbles anyway before getting up.

She settles beside Foggy, who had been expecting to nap until he was needed.

She looks at him for a long second, and then leans in to bump his shoulder amicably. She uses the opportunity to whisper to him. "Nicole Pereira," she tells him. "How have you been, Hugh?"

He lights up. "All the better now that you're here."

"What have you been up to?" she asks, seemingly curious in earnest, because they truly were sort of friends now.

"I've been out in Russia with my partner for the last year, actually. And you?"

"Same old, same old. Touring South Asia, this time. What brings you to Toronto?" she asks casually, rummaging through her bag and deliberately showing him the stitching on the inside of her bag.  _ Yousefi _ , it reads, and Foggy smiles wider. She pulls out some chips and hands them to him. He grins goofily at her, because of all people, they’re sharing the assignment.

"We haven't been going the same direction since Paris," she muses dreamily, zipping up her bag.

A few minutes later, Yousefi walks in and takes a spot just in front of them. He nods to them slightly. The job would be easy, escorting him across the border and helping him settle. The mission would be done within the day, but Foggy doesn't have anything planned for the next week, before he has to get back to New York.

"Say, I might be staying in Toronto for the week, if you wanted to meet up sometime?" he tells her.

She takes a chip from his bag. "Sure," she says leaning on Foggy and yawning.

-

A mere two weeks after that, they're both in New York. Foggy is out with his partner, enjoying the autumnal chill and eating a meal on a pub porch. It had been their go-to when they were undergrads, and it holds nostalgia for the pair of them.

"It's your girlfriend," his partner teases, as she walks their way.

"She's a  _ colleague _ ," Foggy insists. "And you're both insufferable. She thinks  _ you're _ my boyfriend."

"Hello," she says slowly, pleasantly.

"Hey, how are you?" He answers her, leaning over the spires of the metal fence to kiss her cheek.

His partner raises an eyebrow and points a smug grin at him.

"You must be the famous partner. I must say, I haven't heard nearly enough about you," she comments, pointedly at Foggy.

He holds out his hand to shake. "Charmed."

She takes it warily.

"He says he's besotted," Matt says, the teasing glint refusing to leave him. Foggy kicks him under the table, so he reaches across the table to grapple and pull at his earlobe.

"He's lying. We're nothing. He knows we're nothing," Foggy says hastily. Too hastily.

Almost imperceptibly, she shifts. "Is that so?"

"Fuck," he curses in lieu of a reply.

"So you wouldn't mind if I started something with your partner here?" she says, slow and measured.

"Of course not. You're a free agent," he says tightly. “And we’re not, you know,” he gestures between them. “Anything.”

"Alright," she nods. She gathers her handbag higher on her shoulder and walks away.

When she's far enough away, Matt whistles.

"Oh, she's good," he comments after her. "Her heart rate didn't change during that entire mess of an interaction."

"So she really doesn't care?" Foggy asks, frowning into his beer.

"I wouldn't say that."

"You're still going to sleep with her?"

Matt seems to think for a second. "Well, Foggy, you don't just refuse a woman like that."

Foggy grumbles to his calamari.

-

There's Seoul, there's Beijing, there's Venice, and there's Rio.

Nothing changes for them, not really. They talk less, but she is courteous. He is kind, or he tries to be. They do not make excuses to see each other for meals anymore.

-

There's Lisbon. It feels more or less like the first time; there's a convention centre, and the woman, wearing something devastating. There’s her schooled indifference, and her red lips on wine.

“Podemos conversar?” he asks, careful not to make her feel cornered.

“Você está a conversar,” she points out coldly. She glares at him, unafraid to antagonize him.

“Em particular,” he clarifies. “Por favor?”

“Pronto,” she cedes irately, dragging him by the arm into the women’s bathroom.

“Primeiramente, desculpe,” he apologizes, and it doesn’t feel  _ enough _ . This is the most he had seen of her in two years. “E tenho saudades tuas.”

“Não me-” she starts, motioning to leave.

“Acho que,” he interrupts weakly. “Acho que te amo.”

She slaps him across the face. “Eu te odeio,” she says, grabbing the sides of his face. “Detesto.” She kisses him. “Estúpido, cabrão.” And again, leaving red marks on his lips, his cheeks, his nose. “Odeio-te tanto.”

Then the bomb goes off. The one they were supposed to disarm.

“Γαμω,” she curses, shielding herself while Foggy moves to cover her with his body.

“Weren’t you paying attention to the time?” she berates.

But he can’t answer with the shrapnel on his back.

“You piece of shit, talk to me!” she hits him angrily, and reaches into her hair for her comm. “Βοήθεια!” she cries, into it, helping Foggy to his stomach and trying to stop the bleeding. “Η αποστολή απέτυχε!”

She fades from him. He sees her knees on the linoleum as she leans over him, pawing at his back, and the floor fills with blood. He can’t see her face, but he knows she’s upset. He reaches out to her, deliriously motioning to rest a hand on her knee and trying to calm her, but the world turns black before he gets there.

“Μπάσταρδε,” he hears, before he can’t anymore.

-

He comes to on a bed that he does not recognize in a sterile environment, though it does not look like any hospital he has ever seen. The woman sits beside him, and nods at him when she notices him awake.

“Where am I?” he asks blearily, trying to block out the sun from hitting his eyes too harshly. There’s an aching pressure on his back and he feels fuzzy from anesthetic.

“HQ. And you’re really not supposed to be here. They burned everything you had on you, I hope you understand,” she tells him stiffly.

“It’s all just stuff, isn’t it? You’re alive, so it’s fine,” he says, reaching for her hand, and she becomes somehow more rigid beneath his fingers. He retracts it quickly and apologizes.

“This is the first mission I’ve failed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re too distracting. I’ve let myself get too attached.”

Foggy falters again, fighting the nausea he feels coming from everywhere.

“Okay,” he says.

She takes his hand, gives it one last squeeze and leaves Foggy to sleep.

When he wakes up again, he is home and Matt is looming over him. He is trained not to cry, not to be too expressive or telling, but he reaches out to Matt and sniffles. His partner settles under the covers wordlessly, and lets Foggy contemplatively not-cry beside him.

-

The wounds heal, eventually, and the seasons pass by. Foggy grows colder with each mission, more efficient and calculated. He is given authority, he is given medals for his service. It doesn’t satisfy him, and there are days when he is out on even the most dangerous missions, an inch from death, and he still misses her.

It’s a slow day in Paris when a pigeon coos to him from across his table, and Foggy sets down his spoon. The soup had been eating suddenly seems less appetizing as he spots a woman in a red dress and designer sneakers come up to him. The bird flies away and she sits down in its place, setting down a roll of bread and a slice of cheese on a plate. He wipes at his lips with a napkin.

"Bonjour," she says to him, her severe lipstick making her mouth a perfectly shaped red crescent.

"Salut," Foggy says, coldly, crossing his legs. He folds his hands in front of him, both as a casual gesture and an admission that he isn't armed.

She rests her elbows on the table and her hands cup her long face. Her slick black hair blows behind her in a ponytail. He can tell she had been going for a casual look, though he has never caught her in an unglamorous state.

"Comment ça va?”

“Ça va.”

“J'aime ta moustache,” she comments when she realizes Foggy won’t be talking to her.

“Pourquoi êtes-vous ici?” he asks snippily.

She visibly flinches, but she collects herself quickly. “Je déjeune.”

“Et je travaille. Je pense que vous devriez partir.”

“Écoute, je suis désolée pour tout,” she says, and it sounds painful, as if she does not have much experience apologizing. He knows she doesn’t. “Laisse-moi te montrer.”

He wants to say no, he wants to be petty. “D'accord, qu'importe,” he breathes. “Comment je vous appelle, maintenant?”

She contemplates him for a second. "Elektra," she enunciates deliberately. "Je m’appelle Elektra. Et toi?"

"Jacques Caron," he tells her, smiling lightly. "Je devrais y aller. Est-ce que vous veut m'accompagner?"

"Où vas-tu?"

Foggy watches her. She appears to be genuine and curious, but then again, this is her living, and she has killed people at whom she had also looked in the same way.

"Trocadéro."

She laughs. "Bien sûr! As-tu rendez-vous avec un touriste?"

"Et sa fiancée."

"Je vais marcher avec toi," she offers, and he is still suspicious.

He stands, folding an arm out to her. "D'accord," he accepts. "Quoi de beau, mademoiselle?"

She smiles at him serenely and takes his arm. "Alors, c'est une belle journée, et je suis avec toi." She takes her bread and feeds it to him, laughing when he yelps in surprise.

-

His mark is a portly man, gray-haired and narrow-eyed. He does not seem the type to be very warm or loving, but he is a close friend of a Chinese ambassador and all Foggy has to do is confirm his location for the time being.

Foggy spots him from a distance. They're difficult to spot amidst the other couples having tourist moments, but in a clearing, they are the only ones not taking pictures of themselves by the Eiffel Tower.

He takes Elektra by the arm and smiles at her harder, walking with a spring in his step, nearly skipping over to the other couple. He gives her a happy twirl that goes wide and bumps into the mark.

"Ah, pardon," she says, appropriately embarrassed.

"Non, it's, uh, okay," he says awkwardly trying to find the French. "C'est, er, no trouble."

"Anglais?" Foggy cuts in. "You speak English?" he asks as a francophone.

"Er, yes, I do," the man falters, but seems relieved. 

"Une photo?" Foggy asks, gesturing largely as if taking a picture of the air.

"Yes, yes, thank you so much! Uh, merci!" He says, handing Foggy his phone, and Foggy takes the man's picture, planting a tiny tracker on the case as he does so. The man and his fiancée seem happy, and for a flash, he feels guilty that he is intruding on such an intimate trip between them. It passes, though, as it always does.

"Bien! Such beautiful people!" Foggy says, handing them back the phone.

"Likewise," the fiancée says, sunny and comforting. "Thank you, again. Have a lovely day."

The couple leave, and Foggy follows Elektra further into the crowd. 

"Well, that's a job well done, I suppose," he says, turning back to Elektra. She gives him an icy smile like she has an idea, and it stills him.

"Reste avec moi," Elektra whispers to him, pulling him in again, close to her side.

She takes him somewhere quieter, where there are stone residences and hopscotch lines. The light of the day wanes and they stay with each other, exploring the city as if they were anything to each other.

"Do you remember when we were last here?"

He turns to the sound of her voice, so crisp in the late afternoon droll. She steps surely, calculated and tight. Almost a dancer’s steps. "Paris, five whole years ago.”

“I was a different man back then,” he reminisces.

“Jakob. You were Jakob, back then.”

“Mademoiselle Ophèilie Moreau,” he says dramatically, taking her hand to help her off of the sidewalk.

“If I’d known we’d still know each other five years later, I’d have been kinder.”

He chuckles. “Well, from what I remember, Édouard was kind enough to make up for it.”

She stops to scowl at him for a second, but he nudges against her side and laughs. She doesn’t, but there’s a twinkle about her stony face, as if she would laugh but for her pride. She continues her pace and he takes the hint to follow suit.

“I could be kinder, Jacques.”

“I’m sure, Elektra.”

“Come up with me, I could show you,” she says, serious and sultry. She climbs a little stoop and rests her hand on the handle of a glass door. She turns to Foggy and raises a brow, daring him to move forward.

-

Elektra brings him into home that’s cozy and nothing like he had expected. There are flowers on the dinner table, there are cute books on messy wooden shelves, as if they had been read and discarded, hastily being put away to move onto the next book. There are half-burned candles by the windowsill, and wall art of expressive abstract pieces, all in cool blues and yellows. There are photos in small places. Dogs, trees, people. Some of them even feature Elektra.

“What place is this?” Foggy thinks to ask, awed by how lived in it feels.

“My friend Marnie’s. We were childhood friends, and she asked me to housesit while she vacations in Thailand.”

“That’s convenient,” Foggy remarks, moving to the window to peer out at a city that doesn’t care about either of them.

“I’ll cook,” Elektra offers.

“I didn’t know you cooked.”

“Well, I know my way around a knife.”

He smiles at her from the other side of the apartment and picks up a book,  _ D'après une histoire vraie _ by Delphine de Vigan, and leafs through its pages.

“No,” she calls to him when she sees him slacking. “You’re helping me. C’mon monsieur Caron, you have carrots to peel.” She holds out a bunch of rainbow carrots for him to take, shaking them emphatically at him. He heads to the kitchen and takes them from her.

They’re alone and in a space that holds memories for her. It’s intimate and almost overwhelming how openly she had welcomed him here. Foggy realizes that this is who she is when she isn’t pretending. He had seen glimpses over the years, between playful moments in the streets, her wild knifework, her ruthless questioning. He had seen it in the moments when she would look back at him, as if to gauge her permission. She is not a warm person by nature, but she is not unloving or amoral, either. She has interests, though he could never parce out what they were, exactly. She has convictions. She has skills. These ideas seem more tangible than they had been.

In the dim light, with Foggy’s soft humming and the hearty sound of knives and cutting boards. It occurs to him that were they some normal couple, they would be incredibly well travelled. They could fill albums of their journeys. He feels a pang of nostalgia, and he misses all the sights he had seen. The pink skies, the vibrant jungles, the lively passers-by. They do not diminish or meld in his memory; they are pristine and as lovely as when he had first experienced it. Things seem fresher when Elektra is there with him, he realizes.

They could be such an accomplished couple, he thinks. They’ve travelled the world together, they had met very important people and they have been present for things of inconceivable scale. They were only missing all the mundanities in between, the domestic comfort of homemaking, of waking up together, of learning each other’s meal preferences, of knowing each other’s names.

“I’ve been promoted,” she tells him, and he thinks it’s a step.

“That’s amazing,” he says honestly, taking a paper-thin slice of carrot and bringing it on Elektra’s lips. She darts her tongue out to catch it. “Congratulations.”

“You could have climbed up the ranks, too, you know. I don’t know if you know it, but you’re brilliant. I’ve seen you in negotiations. Your speech capabilities are unparalleled.”

“That’s not what I’m after. You know that.”

“You’re still doing tracking tasks half a decade in, Jacques. You’re better than that. Why aren’t you asking for more for yourself?”

“Είμαι απλός άνθρωπος, Ἠλέκτρα.”

“Είσαι έξυπνος,” she insists plainly. “You can have more.”

Foggy sighs and sets down his knife. He pauses long enough for Elektra to turn to him.

“I refuse to kill people, is all.”

“Jacques,” Elektra intones softly. 

She kisses him. Her jaw is graceful, her hair is silken. She is immaterial under his hands, more than a person, more than substance. She is presence itself. She is an exoskeleton of hardiness and steadfast efficiency, and surprising warmth and immense intelligence. And she lets him kiss her, and it is not soft.

“You should know I’ve never done this before.”

“I don’t agree. We met with your pants down.”

“I mean outside of a mission,” Foggy admits. It had always felt like a betrayal to start anything long term because he was always travelling. It had felt like a betrayal to start anything short-term because he didn’t want people to think he was callow.

“I’m sure you’ll be great,” she assures him, and leads them to a horizontal surface.

-

Half an hour later, Elektra smiles at Foggy, brushing through his moustache with her fingers. It’s more tender than anything he had ever experienced.

“We’re keeping the moustache, I hope,” she says dazedly.

Foggy kisses her fingers. “Well, we’ll see. I have to shave it for my next assignment.”

“Pity.”

“Truly. When will I see you again?”

“I’ll be in America next. All year.”

“New York?”

“Manhattan, yes,” Elektra says drowsily.

“Come down to visit. Hell’s Kitchen. It’s not far,” he says, yawning.

“How will I find you?”

“The streets have ears. Ask after Foggy. I’ll come for you,” he assures her, rolling to his back and pressing her hand to his chest.

“Foggy?”

“My ID. F0667. It looks a little like ‘FOGGY’ written out. I said it once five years ago, and no one at HQ’s shut up about it since.”

“You’re 667?!” she shoots up. “Do you know D0666? The legendary Daredevil?”

“Of course. He’s my partner,” Foggy says simply.

She frowns at him. “I can’t believe you let me think you were some grunt agent.”

Foggy nods like he’s not understanding. “Why else do you think they let me do the fun stuff?”

Elektra stares at him for a moment as if he’d just betrayed her. She shuffles out of the bed, still nude, and heads to the kitchen. Five seconds later, she comes back, a sour look on her face.

“The potatoes are burnt.”

Foggy laughs. A little bit at her. “New proposal: we order pizza and we don’t put pants on until they buzz.”

“Sounds like a plan, Foggy.”

**Author's Note:**

> no one wanted this
> 
> also i don't speak any of these languages lol i wrote this specifically to see how much i could get away with.


End file.
